you can call on me (Newtmas)
by vanillaspork
Summary: Newt rubs his hand over Thomas's back in a soothing gesture, murmuring into his ear. "I've got you, Greenie. I'm here. I'm still here. Just forget about it. I'm still here."


Everyone's dozed off. Minho's head is propped up on his chin, Teresa is slumped against the wall, Newt is leaning on Thomas's shoulder, chest rising and falling with even breaths. Even the guy sitting in front of him— one of the Gladers' rescuers— is asleep with his head tilted back, a soft snore escaping his partially parted lips.

However, Thomas is still wide awake, unable to get over the trauma of Chuck's death. His head is spinning, his entire body is on fire, and his heart feels like it's been under a guillotine and suffered the consequences. Just the thought of Chuck's name causes a new wave of despair to surge through Thomas's chest. He was so young, so innocent, so hopeful. All he wanted was a chance to see his parents again. Even the comfort of Newt's head resting against him does nothing to alleviate the agony in his chest or pacify the internal battles raging in his mind.

With painful clarity, Thomas remembers the exact look that had been swirling in the depths of Chuck's eyes right before the light in them had gone out forever. The hybrid look of childlike trust and faith combined with the awe-filled wonder as Chuck saw the glow of another world calling to him had completely broken Thomas. He had looked more peaceful in death than Thomas had ever seen him while alive, his face brightening while his skin turned gray. That face should've been the result of a morning kiss from his mother on his forehead, a hug from his father. Not the result of long-awaited calm, a gift bought by his own cold blood.

Thomas takes the figurine that Chuck had given him out of his pocket, his trembling fingers running over the curves and grooves. All he can hear is Chuck whimpering his name, his face pale as the spot of red in his white shirt spread rapidly through the fabric, forever staining it with crimson, marking his premature death. The worst part of it is that Chuck had died saving Thomas. Perhaps, in actuality, it made it easier on Chuck as his life drained out of him, knowing that he had died for a good cause. But even if that were true, it only made it worse on Thomas, because dammit, Chuck was more worthy than him. More deserving of a second chance at life. More deserving of a glimpse of the sun rising over the horizon, pushing away the darkness of night. More deserving of a lively, pounding heart, reminding him that he was alive with every beat.

And yet here Thomas is. Without Chuck. His first real friend in the Glade, just a kid who put his trust in the wrong source.

Who else will have to die for everything to be over and done?

A drop of liquid turns the figurine in Thomas's fingers a little bit darker, and he realizes that he's crying. Hot tears roll down his cheeks, and he has to quickly put a check on the sound that he makes for everyone else's sakes. The last thing he wants is to wake everyone up with his sobbing. Thomas is still in shock and grief, and everyone understands that, but they need their sleep. _Shuck it, Thomas,_ he chides himself. _Why couldn't you just be normal and sleep too?_

But even with the mental scolding, his body refuses to cooperate. In fact, it does just the opposite. His arms begin to shake and his chest begins to violently shudder, wracking his body with tremors. Thomas bites down on his lip, squeezing his eyes shut as he puts all his focus into staying quiet. He cannot silence everything, however, and his sharp intakes of breath and quivering exhales fill the air along with a little bit of throaty sobbing.

Newt stirs on his shoulder, and Thomas freezes as he feels the other Glader slowly lift his head up. "Thomas," mumbles the boy, blinking and groggily meeting Thomas's anguished, grief-stricken eyes. Worry darkens Newt's face and he straightens up, abruptly alert, eyebrows furrowed. "Hey, Tommy," he whispers, a hand drifting to Thomas's knee. "Are you alright?"

Thomas grits his teeth and looks away, closing his eyes and shaking his head once with a quick jerk of his chin. "No," he hoarsely admits.

He feels a hand slide behind him and grab his far shoulder, fingers squeezing reassuringly. Thomas looks back at Newt, tears saturating his eyes, gasping for breath and stability. Newt gazes back, searching Thomas's face, concern written all over his expression. For explanation, Thomas glances at the figurine and then presses it into the Glader's free hand, keeping his eyes fixed on Newt as he takes the carving and studies it. "This is li'l Chuckie's, isn't it?" he murmurs, his face cast in shadow.

Thomas swallows. "Yeah."

Newt looks back up and gives the figurine back to Thomas, holding him somewhat tighter. "Hey. Hey," he breathes, shaking Thomas and raising his voice just a bit higher as the brunette nears another breakdown. "Tommy, it wasn't your fault. Stop thinking that. I know you are."

"But it is," Thomas argues, his fingers curling into tight fists. "I shouldn't have ever looked for an exit. Maybe we could've just got along in the Glade. Maybe they would've closed the walls again. Maybe Chuck would still be alive, and we could all just rebuild— "

"Shut up, you shank," Newt interrupts, leaning in, his gaze intensifying as he gets closer. "Shut up. You hear me? This is not your bloody fault. None of it. Do you really believe that we could've rebuilt? That they would've closed those walls again?" His voice softens as he rubs Thomas's shoulder, his other hand moving over to grip Thomas's own. Thomas looks at his hand in Newt's, frowning. "Thomas. Listen to me. You were the first person to give us a real chance. Trust me," he murmurs, looking Thomas dead in the eye. "You saved us. Maybe not all of us, but they damn well thought you were worth following. Don't dishonor Chuck's sacrifice, alright? Remember him as a hero, and you'll have done enough."

Thomas breaths out unsteadily before gulping in more air. "Okay," he agrees quietly. "Okay."

Newt is silent for a few seconds before sighing, "Come on," and drags Thomas into a strange sort of side-hug, but comforting nevertheless. Thomas sighs as Newt's hand cups the back of his head, pressing his face into his shoulder. He clutches the other boy's narrow shoulders, trying to steady his own. Newt rubs his hand over Thomas's back in a soothing gesture, murmuring into his ear. "I've got you, Greenie. I'm here. I'm still here. Just forget about it. I'm still here."

 _But for how long?_ Thomas can't help but think.

That single thought has immediate effect. His heart breaks all over again and his chest develops a very annoying burning sensation. If Newt was gone…no. No, he refuses to think of that, of what would happen to himself. He would never be able to recover. He's already lost Alby and Chuck. To lose Newt too would mean emotional destruction. Thomas would never be the same again.

Newt seems to sense his train of thought, holding Thomas more firmly, securing him in his thin arms, but says nothing other than repeating the same thing in a hushed whisper. "I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm here for you, Tommy. Hold on to me. I'm still here."

Thomas, somehow, is able to draw from Newt's supply of serenity and stills his torturous thoughts. _Live in the present,_ he tells himself, feeling his breath begin to even out. Newt is still here, holding him and ruffling his back, mumbling into his hair. And maybe that's all that matters. Thomas doesn't know what's going to happen to them in the future, if Newt will be able to hold him this way ever again, but he's here right now. That's what's important. Thomas already knows that in a world like this, if you don't savor each moment, you'll regret it.

Newt eventually lets Thomas out of the hug, but he doesn't move his arm. "Go to sleep, Tommy," he tells him. "I _will_ be here when you wake up."

"I know," Thomas whispers, dropping his head onto the other boy's shoulder and then feels Newt lean on him as well, returning the action. It's so calming that Thomas's eyes almost immediately close, and he almost misses the tender kiss pressed onto the side of his forehead. He doesn't react at first, but as sleep begins to win him over, Thomas acknowledges Newt by quickly squeezing his leg, hoping he understands how much he needed that. If Newt responds, Thomas will never know, because the world gets washed in black as he falls asleep in the Glader's arms.


End file.
